Upon the Subject of Seiran
by Crystalwren
Summary: A loosely connected set of drabbles regarding Seiran's thoughts on family, identity, and Milady.
1. Haven

Mistress was very beautiful, but she belonged to Master. Master was very kind, but he belonged to Mistress.

Seiran knew that Mistress had come to the house with no dowry and no name, although it was obvious that she was of noble birth. Her bearing, her manners, her hairstyle- a style usually worn by noblewomen from a certain province- all spoke of a woman of very high birth and status. She was also very sheltered. She cooked enthusiastically but with utterly no knowledge or skill. She was delighted by the smallest things; jars of salt sold at the markets, a tray of cheap hairpins at the next stall over. And her past was a blank, a cipher; no family name, and even her given name was taken from that of her husband. He was Shouka and she was Shoukan. Sometimes Shouka would call her 'Rose Princess', like the old fairy tale. A pet name. A nickname. A pretty name, but not a real name.

It bothered Seiran sometimes. Mistress had run from something terrible. Sometimes she screamed at night, dreadful, blood-curdling screams. The first time he'd heard her he'd rushed from his bed, sword in hand, ready to come to her rescue. When he'd reach the door to her chambers he'd heard Master's voice. Calm. Soothing. Telling her that it was just a nightmare and that she was safe. Hearing the screams made Seiran angry because he knew that something- someone- had given her such awful dreams. Seiran wanted to protect the Mistress because he loved her and she was beautiful and she'd rescued him. In the sleepy evenings when Shouka was late getting home, Seiran would sit himself at her feet as she read or embroidered. Nervously, he'd lay his temple against her robe-covered knee and she'd stroke his hair. Shouka was late only rarely, and Seiran would dare even less. But those precious moments, those wonderful moments. The warmth of her hand in his hair.

Seiran loved Mistress, but she belonged to Master. And Master belonged to Mistress.

It had bothered him for a long time, because it seemed to him that loving Mistress was some form of betrayal. He couldn't say why he felt like that, he just did. Then one day when he was in the garden, watching over tiny Shurei, the little girl had plucked a flower and presented it to him. In her piping child's voice she told him that she loved him.

After that, Seiran decided that it was not such a bad thing to love Mistress, even though he didn't belong to her. Shurei belonged to Mistress and Seiran belonged to Shurei. That made Mistress 'mother'. And even though Mistress was in many ways quite fragile, she was also very stong. Seiran had never felt so protected, so loved in the time before she first touched his hair. Master protected Mistress who protected Seiran who protected Shurei.

The arrangement worked quite well, he rather thought.


	2. The Seven Properties of Bushido

Seien. Seiran. Seien. Seiran.

The sword was old and perfectly balanced. A plain hilt, a serviceable blade, suitable for a trusted retainer. He'd received it with reverence. The Master had said that there had been an entire stand of these plain swords, gathering dust in the Master's brother's armoury, but he knew it for something special. It was a symbol; a symbol of his loyalty. His loyalty to the Master, to the Mistress, to Shurei. It sang when he slashed it, cutting the air into serviceable pieces.

Seien. Seiran. Seien.

It was strange that they'd accepted him so readily. Ask no questions. Tell no lies. They didn't know where he'd come from, or his name. When he didn't speak they gave him his own name: Seiran. The word was uncomfortable in his mouth. He never spoke because the truth would kill them, and his honesty would not permit him to lie. Omit, yes. Lie, no. Still, in the dead of the night, in his bed, awake and staring at the ceiling, he permitted himself to mouth it: Seiran. He tasted it; rolled it across his tongue; slid it between his teeth and crunched.

Seiran. Seien. Seiran.

The blade glittered in the sunlight as he moved it in the basic exercises, the practices that would slowy make him a warrior. A proper warrior. A strong warrior. A warrior worthy of being a warrior, because if he wasn't a warrior, then he was just a thug with a pointy metal stick. Someone who would run from danger instead of towards it. He wanted to be a worthy warrior. He wanted to be of use to the Master and the Mistress. He wanted to protect Shurei; fragile, delicate, adorable little Shurei.

Seien. Seiran.

Shurei was tiny. A little ball of energy one minute, wracked with coughing the next. Zipping hither and thither, with a ferocious knack for getting in trouble and an utter lack of self-preservation. When a stray cat had jumped over the wall she'd ran towards the filthy, matted, starving thing without hesitating. The cat's response to this was predictable: it'd hissed and lashed out, leaving five perfect lines of scarlet across the back of Shurei's hand. His own response was immediate; his new sword was instantly in his hand but Shurei had cried, "Seiran, no!" and he'd been so surprised that the sword stopped, inches from slicing off the cat's head. "Don't hurt kitty!" And he looked at the cat, at the hideous, manky stray. He saw that it was pathetic and abandoned and frightened and he sighed. He saw himself in those yellow eyes. There was no point in killing the fragile. Besides, he didn't want to upset Shurei. So he picked up Shurei, her little body still unfamiliar, and the cat had run off. He saw it around from time to time; still wild, but sleek and well fed. He suspected that the Mistress was feeding it, knowing quite well her weakness for strays.

Seiran. Seien. Seien.

Unbecoming grunts escaped his mouth as he moved into the next stage of exercise. It was...disrespectful not to talk to them, he knew, but this love was painful and unfamiliar, and the words curled themselves into knots and wouldn't come out. So he cut the meat and served the dishes humbly, walked three steps behind the Master and Mistress, bowed lower than he'd ever bowed in his life, lower than he'd ever thought possible.

Seien. Seiran.

Sometimes he missed palace life. He missed the wines and the sweet, heavy liqueurs. He missed the pretty clothes because he was just a little vain, although he hated to admit it. He missed the food; the Mistress was a poor cook and the Master made dreadful tea. In the heart of his hearts, he wished he was being properly tutored in the sword instead of cobbling a technique together from parts of prior learning, his disastrous stint as bandit and the odds and ends he picked up from the warriors of his Master's brothers. Occasionally he daydreamed: he'd raise an army, march on the capital, claim the throne. Save the country from the inevitable depravations of his brothers. Save Ruyuki, whom he missed with a deep, fierce ache. Return with a mountain of gifts for the Master and Mistress, fine things and delicate foods, doctors to wait on sickly Shurei's every need. But those daydreams always filled him with a sick sense of shame; he'd never repay the Master and Mistress like that. And he swore an oath never to seek his birthright, swore on the night of his exile. A warrior keeps his oaths, and he wanted to be a warrior, very much.

Seien. Seiran. _Seiran._

It wasn't such a bad name, he decided as he came to the end of the exercises and set his sword aside. He stretched with a great deal of pleasure and yawned sleepily. Prince Seien had been sneaky, cunning, and thoroughly ruthless. Of necessity, because vulnerability was cruelly punished in the palace. Just look what happened to Ruyuki. This new person- this Seiran- could let his guard down. Could love. Could protect. Could eat at the family table without fear of being poisoned by nothing more sinister than the Master's tea. The Master and Mistress were people of kindness and integrity. He wanted to be worthy of them. He wanted to be worthy of their kindness. He wanted to be worthy of Shurei.

Being Seiran wouldn't be easy, but he rather thought he'd enjoy it.


	3. Light

Seien had forgotten what good, clean candlelight looked like.

Since being exiled from the palace he'd lived rough; hovels, caves or out in the open; rush lights; crude, stinking tapers from animal fat; open fires; moonlight or nothing at all, just the pitch dark going on forever. These candles that the Master and the Mistress favoured were of good quality. Not of excellent quality, as excellence implied extravagance and the Master and the Mistress preferred to live frugally. Good quality. A clear, steady flame. Smell of melting beeswax. Good candles. Good light.

He could stare at the single flame for hours. He didn't think much. There was a place inside his head where he went. It was dark and quiet, although occasionally, something would scream.

"Seiran."

The Mistress. She was, Seien decided quietly, even more beautiful in candlelight.

"Seiran. Help me put Shurei to bed."

The Mistress never asked him to speak, which was good. Talking wasted perfectly good breath. So many people talked needlessly, seemingly oblivious to the precious resource they were squandering. The Mistress seemed wise enough to know this, and was as frugal with her words as she was with candles. Seien approved.

He rose up from his chair, took the candle between thumb and finger, and sheltered the fragile flame with his palm. As he passed the Mistress, Shurei twisted in her mother' arms and seized a fistful of Seien's hair.

"Shurei!"

"Seiran," she cooed, "Seiran!"

Perhaps not all words were wasteful, he mused, standing still while the Mistress teased Shurei's tiny hand open. Some words were quite appropriate. Anything that Shurei said, for example, was very appropriate. Necessary. Maybe even precious.

"Seiran," Shurei whined as she reluctantly let him go. He smiled and stepped in front of the Mistress and daughter, holding the candle aloft so that they could walk in the light.


	4. Beginings

It was so cold.

They'd told him that lying down in the snow was a peaceful way to die. They'd said that the cold would ebb away and that he'd be filled with a sense of warmth and contentment, drifting off to sleep and then to death. They had lied. Seien hurt. All over. Dying was supposed to be easy but it wasn't. It wasn't easy at all. It was misery, and it ached.

He heard the carriage coming and felt a profound sense of relief. No one stopped in these thief-infested woods, and a person on the track would be run down without hesitation. The carriage would grind him under its wheels and it'd hurt even more, but at least it would be quicker. Eyes squeezed shut, Seien hunched into a tighter ball and waited for the end to come.

It didn't.

The carriage slowed, came to a stop and all bewildered, he raised his head to look. The door opened. A little girl got out. She toddled towards him, utterly fearless, tripping in the snow, cackling when she fell. When she reached him she clapped her chubby hands to his face and giggled.

And that's how he met Shurei.


End file.
